I'm shipping off to find my wooden leg...
A few thoughts on a rainy Friday morning that began with the iPod alarm clock waking me up to "I'm Shipping Up to Boston."
- iPod karma in full effect with that tune...Jonathan Papelbon and Josh Beckett proving their immense worth. I think everyone in baseball can now look at Beckett and agree that he is what Dane Cook keeps yelling about in those stupid commercials. And Paps is just filthy. When Beckett can go 8 and hand the ball to the closer, it's like going from Pigpen to Pigpen.
- Oh well, no one's going to Dayton now. D.C. is on the board, with Philly soon to disappear as well. I guess we'll just have to force-feed the coverage with a 23-win season or something silly like that.
- Back to Beckett. Two humorous stories this week, in regards to baseball players and their off-field dalliances. I've always joked with my buddy JJ that if I could do it all over again, I'd learn to hit a curveball. Or throw one that's just a little faster than the 60 mph that my Charlie Hooker crosses the plate at. Or maybe get a second pitch.
But last night, in a "coincedence" of sorts, the Indians were scheduled to have Taylor Hicks or some other American Idol slapdick since the National Anthem. He couldn't make it, so they had Danielle Peck sing.
(the Q-rating of Danielle Peck isn't really hitting home yet, is it? Apparently she's a country singer.)
And she used to date Josh Beckett.
(and, judging by this picture, she still sorta likes him/or the team he plays for. Maybe next time, the Injuns can get motion picture star Matt Damon or famed author Stephen King to throw out the first pitch...ass...)
So the ace's ex is belting out about the bunches of bombs in the air. Classic.
Even more classic was Beckett's reaction to a post-game question about the chick he used to Facebook (I think that's what the kids are calling it these days)
"I don't get paid to make those (shampooing) decisions."
I should make t-shirts with that slogan on the front to wear around the current paycheck provider...
- As for the other ballplayer player, Derek Jeter took some time out of his busy schedule and mourning the anemic performance in the ALDS to swing a few episodes in South Beach.
Jeter and I have a lot in common. He's bi-racial, admittedly handsome, good athlete, filthy stinking rich, and can pick up any chick on the planet. And he has vowels in each of his names.
Ok, so the vowel part is pretty much the extent of it, but you can certainly imagine it, right?
Moving along here...Jeter bagged two bimbos, took them back to his crib (again, that's what the youth of America are calling it), ordered in Chinese, and played jenga.
Or they had sex. I dunno.
Bottom line: the next morning, a tad bit on the early side, the duo was seen and heard making a stink in the lobby of the hotel. Why? Because they had to pay parking.
So after a long night of jenga (which is what I'm calling it), they don't get breakfast or parking? Not even a bagel and a voucher? No crepe and a pass key? No waffles and a valet?
Attboy, Jetes. Treat 'em like 7up - never have, never will.
- That's about it. I like Schilling in game 6. It could be for the win if Gagne didn't blow.